A Shoulder To Cry On
by x.Sess.x.Satan.x
Summary: Oneshot set just after 'Histories'. Wilson returns to the hospital to find Foreman in House's office just after Victoria's death. Hinted ForemanxWilson, but more friendship than slash.


**Title: **A Shoulder To Cry On  
**Rating: **T – Contains content not suitable for children. (Strong language. EVER so slightly slashy.)  
**Pairings: **Foreman/Wilson.  
**Disclaimer: **'House' is not mine. But, my God, do I ever wish I owned Robert Sean Leonard…  
**A/n: **Set just after 'Histories'; Wilson and Foreman run into each other at PPTH and discuss their latest case and the emotional ties it brought up.

**A Shoulder To Cry On**

He had just scraped the lock with the tip of his doorkey when he realized he'd left his briefcase at work. Grumbling slightly, he withdrew the key and turned back around. If he hadn't had a huge pile of paperwork to sift through by the following morning, he wouldn't have bothered retrieving it; his headache had increased tenfold since his conversation with House. Thinking about his estranged brother was painful enough without having to talk about it, too, but he knew House wouldn't let it go until he had coloured in that small patch of history he had kept shaded until now. When he arrived at the hospital, he almost unconsciously glanced at his watch: five minutes to midnight. Julie was going to kill him.

Feeling suddenly weightily tired, he flipped on the light in his office and grabbed the briefcase heavy with The Paperwork. Knocking the light off again with his elbow, he noticed a glow emanating through his glass-paned door. Peering through it, he saw that House's desklight was turned on. He'd just left a conversation with House, so he determined it couldn't be the man himself, but there was definitely someone in there; a lone, dark figure sat at the desk, his body arched, his head cupped in his hands. Wilson left his office and walked the arced corridor to House's.

"Foreman?"

The man looked up, his eyes red-tinged, his brow laced with sweat. A silence descended on the room – not awkward, but heavy.

"How's Victoria?" Wilson asked, knowing the answer. Sure enough, Foreman shook his head slowly, before lowering it back down into his hands.

Another silence.

"And how are you?"

Foreman snapped his head up, taken aback by the question, "Huh?"

"How are you?" Wilson asked, putting his briefcase down – vaguely acknowledging the relief in his arm – and walking closer to his colleague.

"I…I'm fine."

"Yeah, you look it," Wilson said sarcastically, offering Foreman a tissue which he gladly took, "Did you tell her?"

Foreman nodded, "I pretended to be Paul. She was out of it, she believed me."

"So she died happy."

Foreman's eyebrow flickered, "Hardly."

Wilson winced and looked at the floor, scolding himself for saying that, "No, of course she didn't. But she died with closure."

Foreman's eyes closed, forcing out a tear, "She shouldn't have died at all," he said in a whisper. Wilson sat opposite him and looked at him for a moment, studying his face, wondering if he should ask the question that was burning inside him.

"Why…why didn't you want to take the case?" he said, his gaze ever steady on Foreman so he could stop talking the second he noticed discomfort.

He let Foreman take his time to answer. Their dark eyes met.

"When I was young," Foreman began, "About eleven or twelve, I was walking down a street when I saw a homeless guy lying in the doorframe of a grocery store. People were walking in and out of the store without even stopping to acknowledge his existence. But I stopped. He was coughing. Not your regular dry cough; this was a full-on, wet, hacking cough, and he could barely breathe in between. I went over to him and knelt down beside him. He was wheezing so bad, and I wished I could help him. Couldn't, though. He just looked at me, his eyes were all grey and glassy, and he gave me a picture. This picture."

He reached into his blazer pocket and pulled out a small photograph. Wilson took it and examined it; it was very similar to the pictures they'd found at Victoria's place: a teenage boy and his girlfriend locked together in a protective hug, large smiles coming not only from their faces, but also from their body language.

"And then he died," Foreman concluded abruptly, harshly yanking Wilson out of the warm, fuzzy place he'd been in.

"What, just like that?"

"Just like that."

"In front of you?"

"Yep."

He blinked, "Fuck."

He gazed at Foreman, the picture slipping in his fading grip. He immediately caught an image of himself kneeling by his brother's cold body and shuddered.

"Are you OK?" Foreman asked, reading the sickening sadness that painted Wilson's features.

Wilson bit his lip, "Uh huh."

Foreman leaned forward a little, "What's wrong?"

Wilson looked deep into Foreman's eyes again, deeper than he looked into his own wife's, "My brother. He's homeless. I haven't seen him for nine years," he ignored Foreman's horrified expression that blinked uncontrollably and leaned away, "I just pictured him…pictured me with him…he was…he…" he trailed off, his heart aching too much to continue, the image still etched firmly at the front of his mind. He blinked hard to remove it, causing coloured spots to appear. When he opened his eyes, he saw Foreman was crying. Sobbing into his own arm.

Instinctively, Wilson's good nature kicked in and placed his hand on Foreman's. It was just one disturbing image after another; Foreman, for the last few months, had always come across to the oncologist as a hardened character – not heartless, but strong. It was beyond painful to see him break down like this.

Suddenly, Foreman stood up, as though leaving the spot he'd been sat in for God only knows how long would dissipate the upset he was feeling. He wandered jerkily around the office, only half-aware that Wilson's eyes were constantly following him. After a while, he decided that standing up had been a bad idea – now the pain was free to move, it was flooding his body, reaching to the tips of his finger, delving to the pit of his stomach. He arched his body and hit his head and hands against the wall, the physical pain momentarily diminishing the emotional. He choked out a sob, his now-hysterical crying fit barely allowing him to breathe.

Wilson's eye twitched at the sight, and he shot out of his seat and over to the neurologist, wrapping a comforting arm around his shoulders. Foreman immediately reciprocated, taking hold of him and folding his arms around his waist, letting his insecurity be enveloped in the arms of his friend. Though he was already gasping for air, he buried his face in Wilson's shoulder.

Wilson closed his eyes and tilted his head against Foreman's.

He hadn't been wrong earlier; Julie was definitely going to kill him.


End file.
